Arrow's Smithy was not advertised as a weapon's shop, rather a metallurgist for constructions and horse wears. A sign read, "Sharp as an Arrow Smithy" which hung over a fairly plain looking blue brick building with smoke billowing behind it. Apparently the forging and such was done in back.
Amythra drew on her gloves and took a second look at the olive-wood box. She breathed in, straightened up, and blew out. "Right." You're your father's daughter, she thought. She nodded. She spoke out loud. "Let's go, then."
Pushing the heavy groveroot door open caused a deep clank to emit from a bell on its other side. Inside was a variety of tools, devices, and a corner dedicated to armor and shields. The room was lit, barely, not by lamps, but with torches hooked onto the wall and baking a green-stone ceiling. It smelled like oil and polish and sent Amythra's mind racing back to one of the smithy's back home who molded ties and long nails for ship building. "Just a moment!" cried a deep chirping voice from in back.
That was the only way to describe it. A deep chirp.
When she approached the counter and placed her box on top, Amythra couldn't help but adopt a wide goofy grin. There was a light wooden carving of a borc holding a pickaxe that sat on the counter with the words "Paper Jewel" on its base. That was the name of her father's ship when he was a deck hand and this was clearly his work. The connection she needed to be at ease again.
The borc who emerges from behind a leather curtain was bare-chested and hid his remarkable mass with light springy steps. His hairy face was smoked and grilled except over his eyes, eyes like a reverse raccoon, where a thick set of goggles had been pulled away from. "'Allo. Can I help you folk?" His voice wasn't gruff, it was a baratone sing-song, quite unlike any borc Amythra had heard. He wiped the sweat from his hands and put them on the counter.